


Won't Get Fooled Again

by laytoning, pixiesnifffrobodong



Category: Sherlock (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-15
Updated: 2013-08-18
Packaged: 2017-12-23 15:04:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/927907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laytoning/pseuds/laytoning, https://archiveofourown.org/users/pixiesnifffrobodong/pseuds/pixiesnifffrobodong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Winchesters team up with John and Sherlock to solve a case that has them all stumped. But will they manage to put their differences aside and come together to figure out this case that none of them can solve alone?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Seventeen Dead

Harold stumbled into his house. It was supposed to be his last night here before the foreclosure and he still hadn’t found another place to live. He had nearly no money to his name, nowhere to live, nobody to talk to, and it had all happened so fast. It still didn’t seem real, as if he would soon wake up in the bed he’d had to sell just to get by for another few days. He’d get out of bed, shake off this horrible nightmare, and get on with life. He’d go back to work, talk to his friends, maybe go out for drinks with them again.

But that wasn’t his reality anymore. There was only one more thing he could do for himself. The man dragged himself up his stairs for the last time and made his way into the now empty master bedroom. He threw his closet doors open and pushed his dirty clothes aside, pulling out a small shoebox. Quickly, before he lost his nerve, he pushed the lid off and pulled out his small 9mm handgun. It was a Ruger LC9 with blue finish, given to him by his late father, and which he kept only for protection. Inside lay a single bullet and he laughed a little to himself, thinking about how all these years he’d kept this gun to keep himself safe from the outside world, and now he was going to use it to harm himself. But in a way, he thought, this was his final act of protection. He would finally be safe from the unfairness and hatred of the world around him.

With a trembling hand, Harold brought the gun up to his temple. He still cursed the fact that his life had collapsed around him so suddenly, while all he could do was watch. But at the same time, he felt oddly serene. There was nothing left for him now, nothing left to live for. Whatever was beyond this certainly held more promise than the circumstances he was living with. Maybe there was a Heaven and he would spend eternity in paradise. Or maybe he would be reincarnated. Then he would have another life, and maybe that life wouldn't fall down at the foundations like this one had. Of course, maybe there was no afterlife. Maybe he would simply cease to exist. But even if that was true, it would be better than sticking around to see what other miseries awaited him here. 

This tranquil feeling overtook Harold's entire body as his finger tightened on the trigger. He was doing the right thing. This hell that had been his life for the past several weeks would be gone soon. Gradually, unhesitatingly, he put more pressure on the trigger. He didn't have time to register the bang or the instant of pain as the bullet passed through his head before he was gone.

oOo

“Seventeen suicides in one month, Dean, you can’t tell me it’s just a coincidence,” Sam leaned back in his chair, away from the glowing screen of his computer, and looked up at his brother.

“It happens, Sam. Things become too tough, and people can’t deal with the harsh pains of reality so they just end it. There’s nothing supernatural about it, it’s just the way things go.”

“But it’s not just seventeen suicides. The victims weren’t directly connected, but there is something they all had in common; they were all prominent figures in the community,” Sam argued. “If seventeen people who all have pretty good lives commit suicide in the same month, there’s probably something supernatural behind it. It’s our kind of thing.”

Dean gave a sigh of resignation. “You said it’s in Custer, right? That’s only a couple hours away. We can go check it out. If there’s something there, we’ll ice it. If there’s not, you owe me a few drinks.”

Sam smiled and turned back to his computer to continue reading the articles pulled up on his screen. They’d leave in the morning.

oOo

The next day they made it to Custer in under an hour, dressed in their suits with their fake badges on the ready. The first stop they made when they got into the small town of barely over 2,000 was at a small restaurant.

“Okay,” Dean started after they ordered. “Give me the details on these suicides, and why exactly you think there’s something else going on here.”

Sam pulled a small notepad from his pocket and leaned forward on the table.

“Well to start, each person who has died so far has been someone well known in the community. For example, the vice principal of the local high school was the third suicide this month. Secondly, each article I read said the person had started having financial issues, yet no reasoning as to why. And lastly, they all died the same way, a single bullet to the head. You have to admit that it’s strange.”

"Okay, I admit it, it's a bit weird. But what do you think it is, then? Cursed object? Spirit murdering people and making it look like suicide? Demons?"

"All of these people were unemployed and virtually penniless by the time they committed suicide, and they all lived in different parts of town. That pretty much rules out cursed object. If these were murders, not suicides, that would have to be a pretty intelligent spirit to make it look this much like suicide. As for demons...well, the latest death happened just a day or two ago. Some guy named Harold Barnes. The scene is still being investigated, so we could see if there's any sign of sulfur. Anyway, I think we should go check it out as soon as possible," Sam responded.

“Fine,” Dean said, leaning back a little as the waitress placed their food down in front of them. “We’ll go as soon as we’re done here.

oOo

It was a small, brick house in the middle of the street. The blinds in each of the windows were pulled down, but the front door was wide open, yellow tape blocking it off. The front yard was slightly overgrown but not long enough to look messy. The house was nice enough, but the absence of life was blaring loud over the small, serene street. Sam thought he probably would have been able to pick out which house they were supposed to go to even if he hadn’t already known the address. There was just something off about the whole thing.

They approached the house with a confident, official air about them. An officer glanced up as they came closer, then elbowed his partner to alert him to the strangers. The two exchanged a puzzled look; this pair was definitely not from around here.

"Can we help you?" he asked as Sam and Dean stopped in front of them.

"Yes. I'm Agent Saport and this is Agent Jacobson," Dean said, taking out his fake FBI badge and showing it to the other two men. Sam did the same. "We're with the FBI."

Both officers immediately stood up a little straighter. They both found it odd that federal agents would come all the way to deal with some suicide cases, but neither wanted to be the one to question their authority. "Oh. So...uh...I assume you want to examine the scene?" the first officer asked.

"Of course they want to examine the scene," the second one hissed to his partner before turning back to Sam and Dean with a smile. "Our forensics team was busy with a case a few towns over when the suicide happened, so they just got here today. They're finishing up on the body right now, but I'm sure they wouldn't mind if you two took a look around. Right this way." 

The two officers led them into the house, up the stairs, and into the room where the suicide happened. The body was still there, and several forensics officers were examining it. Aside from the fact there was no furniture in the room, nothing jumped out at either brother as out of the ordinary. Even so, signs of the supernatural weren't always immediately obvious.

Sam glanced around at the people throughout the room. They wouldn’t be able to get much work done with all of them in there, so they’d have to wait until they finished up.

“Let’s look around at the rest of the house, see if we can learn more about this guy or something,” he turned to face Dean. “You check out downstairs and I’ll look around up here.”  
Dean gave him a single nod before trotting down the stairs, and Sam turned to look in the small bathroom.

It was a bland room. The shower curtains, the toilet seat cover, and the small throw rug were all a pale blue, while the floor, ceiling, and walls were white. Pulling the curtains aside, Sam looked at the various bottles strewn about the bottom of the tub. Nothing caught his eye. He turned again to look into the mirror. There was a small chip in the glass as the bottom corner, and the cabinet was slightly opened. Pushing it open all the way, Sam looked around on the shelves. Ibuprofen, acetaminophen…Viagra, but altogether, nothing incriminating or implying anything that might help them.

Just as he left the bathroom to take a look in the hallway closet, Dean called his name.

“Sammy, you might want to come take a look at this!”

Sam hurried downstairs, where he found his brother leaning over the kitchen stove. "What is it?" he asked, inspecting the appliance for himself. Though it was clearly old, it was a relatively nice stove. There didn't seem to be anything odd about it.

"There's something behind here, some kind of marking...looks like it's written in blood. Help me move this," Dean said, grabbing a side of the stove. Sam took the other side, and within a few moments, they had moved it enough to clearly see six letters scrawled on the wall behind it: 'судьба'.

"That's definitely blood. But it's all dried, so it was probably written a while ago. At least a few weeks," Sam said, taking out his phone to take a picture of it.

"C-y-slanty a-tiny b-six-a. Pretty sure that's not English."

"No, it's not. And I'm also pretty sure most normal people don't write things on their walls in blood." He gave Dean an expectant look.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Yeah, okay, I admit it, there's something going on here. No need to look so smug. What did you find upstairs?" 

"Nothing. Most of the furniture was gone up there, but there weren't any signs of spirits or demons. Did you find anything else down here?"

"No. Most of the furniture is missing here too, so it didn't take long to look around. I did ask an officer about it, though. He said it was because the victim had sold most of his stuff towards the end when he got desperate for money. So I guess that's nothing to go on. Didn't smell any sulfur or anything either."

Sam took another look at the message. "I'd say our best bet is to find a motel and do a little research on this."

Dean nodded in agreement. "Then let's blow this pop shop."

And with that, the two headed out.


	2. The Blogging Detectives

“John, get me a case.”

Sherlock had been pacing back and forth for hours. Over the past week, he’d rotated between that, playing his violin, and sitting in his chair staring off into space.

“I’m sorry there isn’t enough crime in London to satiate your needs, but there’s nothing I can do about it,” John was on his laptop, just surfing the internet without a real goal in mind. The weeks without interesting cases were just as tough on John as they were on Sherlock, mostly because he had to deal with the impatient man.

Sherlock flopped into his chair, his legs bouncing and his eyes darting about the room.

“I’m going insane, John,” his nails were digging into the arms of his chair.

“I’d say you’re already there,” John chuckled a little as he stood and closed the laptop. “Anyway, I’m going to get in the shower. Don’t do anything rash while I’m gone, please.” 

About five minutes later, John heard a loud crashing sound, followed by, "SOMEONE GET ME A BLOODY CASE!" Several more crashes and bangs issued after this. John sighed, readying himself for damage control duty and mentally preparing an apology to Ms. Hudson.

All in all, it was a very normal evening at 221B Baker Street.

oOo

"Well, I found out what the word is," Sam announced after about an hour at his laptop. "It's Russian Cyrillic for 'fate'." 

Dean, who had been watching the news with a slightly hazy look on his face, immediately sat up and turned his attention to his brother. "So whatever we're dealing with wrote 'fate' in Russian with blood in a guy's house, and then he died?"

"That's basically the situation," Sam confirmed. "I'll bet anything that the other victims had this written in their houses as well." 

"This is starting to look less like suicide and a heck of a lot more like murder, if you ask me," Dean commented. 

Sam nodded. "I agree. I'm starting to think vengeful spirit, but I don't think spirits can rearrange scenes to look like suicides instead of murders. Anyway, I'll keep looking."

oOo

Another few hours passed. Sam leaned back and sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "I looked through all the recent obituaries in the area. Aside from the suicides, none of the recent deaths were caused by anything out of the ordinary. There was a car accident that killed both drivers, but I don't see anything supernatural surrounding it. In addition to that, there were two cases of fatal heart attacks, but again, nothing weird about them. The rest were deaths caused by old age."

"Okay, so vengeful spirit's out. Did you look at local folklore?" Dean suggested.

"Yeah, I checked into that too. There's nothing. I'm stumped, Dean."

“So am I,” he sighed and scratched the back of his head. “We’ve never dealt with something like this before.”

“I’m going to start looking for similar cases in other places, see if I can find anything that will help us make sense of this.”

“Right,” Dean nodded and grabbed his jacket from the foot of his bed. “And I’m going to get us some beer. It looks like we’re going to need it.”

“Yeah,” Sam leaned forward in his seat as he heard the door to their room close.

He decided to start small, so he searched the term “group suicides” just to see what articles came up. Ultimately all he ended up with were stories about strange cults that had no connection to this whatsoever. Next, he searched “group suicides + solved” but came up considerably less than he had in the first search. After that failure, he decided to go a different route. While these did appear to be suicides, he couldn’t help but feel that there was more to it, and something else involved, so he searched another term; “serial suicides.” After a few articles that lead him to nothing, he came to a small blog post authored by a man named Dr. John H. Watson.

“There's been another of those 'serial suicides'. It's weird. There doesn't seem to be any connection between the deceased. It doesn't make sense.”

Sam sat up a little in his seat as he read. This was the first thing he came to that had any resemblance to the cases at hand, but this post was a little outdated, so he decided to look through the blog for more information.

“A Study in Pink” was the first post he came to, and he read through the whole thing. By the end of it, he was completely fascinated. The story was riveting, and while it seemed those suicides didn’t much coincide with these ones, he was more interested in John Watson and Sherlock Holmes, the two men mentioned in the blog. If this story, and the others on the blog like it, were legitimate, then Sam thought he might have found a way to solve their problem.

There was an email address located towards the bottom of the blog page, so Sam copied it and composed a relatively short, explanatory email. He decided to remain under the guise of an FBI agent (he figured it was more likely the pair would pay attention), so he wrote a simple summary of the case: seventeen suicides in a single month. The Russian word for 'fate' written in blood. Though he didn't mention anything about any supernatural creatures (they wouldn't take him seriously if he said that), he did say both he and his partner suspected they were murders made to look like suicides. Finally, he gave them the state, the town, the motel, and their room number, and he finished it with an eloquently worded request for help. He hit the 'send' button just as Dean returned with a six pack of beer, some burgers, and a salad. 

"What'd you find?" Dean asked, handing his brother a bottle and the salad. 

"Well, in terms of information about whatever we're hunting itself, nothing. But I think I found some people that can help us," Sam responded, opening the salad container and putting some dressing on it.

"And who's that?" 

"Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson. They're from London, and they've solved a lot of cases no one else could figure out. One of them involved a bunch of suicides that ended up being murders. I think they could really help us, so I just emailed them." 

Dean put down his beer. "Wait, you what? You emailed two strangers who live all the way across the Atlantic and who probably have absolutely zero experience with spirits, demons, monsters, or whatever it is we're hunting?"

"They aren't just two strangers, though. They're geniuses. Dr. Watson's blog says Sherlock can deduce anything about anyone, and he picks up on things no one else does. And the most recent post says that they haven't had a proper case in weeks."

"Well, email them back and tell them we changed our minds. We can figure this out ourselves, Sam. There's no reason to drag these two into it."

"But we can't figure this out ourselves, Dean. We have no idea what we're dealing with, and it's only a matter of time before another person dies."

"And you think the two blogging detectives can figure out what we're hunting?" Dean asked briskly.

"Maybe not. But Dean, we hunt the monsters under people's beds. We're not detectives," Sam responded. "Maybe these two can get us somewhere with this case, and then we can finish it by killing whatever is murdering these people. But we can't do it alone. Just trust me on this one. Please." 

Dean sighed, taking another swig of beer. "Okay, okay, fine. But it's asking a lot for them to come all the way out here, so if they say no, we're back to doing it our way. Got it?" 

"Got it," Sam said, turning back to his laptop. "But I have a good feeling about these two."

oOo

Sherlock did one of the few things he usually did to pass the time while John was asleep and he was wide awake at one in the morning; he went through John’s emails.

 

They were dreadfully boring, and he honestly couldn’t understand how they’d kept him preoccupied for more than five minutes. There were so many different offers for cases that he could solve just from reading the emails, so he sent curt responses to each. Yes, your wife is having an affair and no, it’s not with her coworker. No, your daughter isn’t sneaking out at night, but yes she is seeing someone. It was so tedious, so dull. He needed something to really press his mind, something that forced him to think.

That’s when he opened one of the last few emails in John’s inbox.

There wasn’t anything in the subject line, but after the first few sentences he knew this was something he had to take on. Seventeen suicides in one small town, all done the same way and under the same circumstances. That was hardly interesting. But what really caught his attention was the Russian; written in old blood and spelling out the word ‘fate’. He had to take this on. It was the only thing that had interested him in weeks. And the fact that he couldn’t solve it just from reading the first two lines was promising already.

Almost as interesting as the case itself were the ones who sent the email, claiming to be FBI agents. It was obvious enough that they weren’t. For one, the email held no insignia and an email from the FBI would surely have one. Secondly, the FBI would hardly take on suicide cases and if they did they’d never consult Sherlock directly, and certainly not through email. Mycroft would contact him for cases like this, yes, but definitely not two FBI agents. The FBI would not give a second glance to the small town of Custer, South Dakota, and they’d surely not be staying in a motel. Even if they were staying in a motel, why would they disclose their location to Sherlock? Short answer, they aren’t FBI agents. So that left Sherlock with two mysteries to solve.

The only problem would be dragging John to the states with him to solve a case.

He slammed the laptop shut and jumped to his feet, flinging the door to his room, where John now slept as well, wide open.

“Wake up, John! We’re going on a vacation!”

oOo

Both brothers had trained themselves to sleep lightly, a skill that had come in handy on multiple occasions. As such, they both awoke immediately upon hearing the sound of forceful knocking at their motel door. 

Dean rolled out of bed, glancing at the clock. Six-thirty. Whoever's knocking had better have a good reason, he thought, making his way to the door.

Sam yawned and got to his feet as Dean opened the door. Standing outside their motel room were two men. One of them was fairly tall, with curly black hair and a long, black dress coat with the collar turned up. The other was somewhat shorter, with brown hair and a rigid look on his face. Neither looked like they had slept very much in the past 24 hours.

It was the latter man that broke the awkward silence hanging in the air. "I'm Dr. John Watson, and this is Sherlock Holmes. We received your email and are here to assist in any way we can."


	3. Introductions

“You came,” Dean wiped the sleep from his eyes and stared at the two men in front of him. “You really came.”

“Obviously,” the taller one, Sherlock Holmes, pushed past Dean, bumping his shoulder, while the shorter one followed behind, throwing Dean an apologetic look. “We have quite a bit to talk about. Get your notes out.”

“Do you have any idea what time it is?” Dean’s hair was mussed, and as he looked at the dapper man standing in front of him he felt ridiculously underdressed, wearing nothing but a pair of boxers and an old, stained t-shirt.

“Don’t ask me obvious questions. Where are your notes?”

Before Dean responded with a most likely scathing comment, Sam spoke up, climbing from his bed.

“Right here,” he grabbed the small notepad from his jacket and tossed it on the small table in the middle of the room.

“Now wait a goddamn minute.” Dean stepped forward. “You can’t just barge in here and expect us to give you all the information we have. We barely know who you are.”

“My name is Sherlock Holmes, as you’ve already been told, and we’re here because you clearly need us. You obviously can’t do your own job…agent,” he smirked at the other man as he spoke the last word.

Dean growled and moved to face Sherlock; they stood nearly eye to eye.

“We don’t need you. You don’t even know us.”

“Oh, don’t I?” He looked the man up and down, taking in all he could and glancing about the room. He heard John’s light intake of breath as he was about to speak, but Sherlock put a hand up to stop him. “You’re in your early thirties but to look into your eyes, one could say you were much older, so you’ve seen things? Disturbing things, if I had to guess. And you’ve seen them enough to have a permanent affect on your psyche. You’ve got daddy issues written all over you. Abusive? No. Alcoholic? Definitely not. No, daddy wasn’t even around was he? Leaving you to take care of the younger siblings-” he paused to look at Sam for a moment before turning back to Dean-“Your guise as FBI agents couldn’t even fool me over email, let alone in person, so maybe you’re right….Agent Saport, maybe I don’t know who you are. Enlighten me.”

Dean opened his mouth to speak, but Sam cut in before he could get say anything. "I apologize for lying about our identities. My name is Sam Winchester, and this is my brother, Dean. We assumed you wouldn't take us seriously if we didn't represent some type of authority figure, so-"

"No, no, quite the opposite, actually. I wouldn't have taken you seriously if you were an 'authority figure'. Though I really don't feel any inclination to take you seriously anyway, given how these introducti-"

"Listen," Dean interrupted, his hands curling into fists and his voice laced with barely-contained fury. "I don't know how the hell you know any of that stuff about us, or our dad, but if you think for one second I'm going to let you talk to my bro-"

"It's really not that difficult. I suppose it may be somewhat difficult for you ordinary people to wrap your brains around it, but the art of deduction is really quite simple. See, you have the exact same look in your eye as John; a hardened look, the look of a man who has seen war. The amount of time it took you to answer the door after being asleep when I knocked suggests you're a very light sleeper. The way you're clenching your fists right now makes it quite evident your first instinct is to punch things that irritate you. Even someone like you could put those three things together and-"

"Sherlock," John cut in. "Give the gentleman a break-"

"He asked. I was simply giving him an answer," Sherlock argued.

"No, you're being ru-" the doctor started.

"He's right," Dean said, turning to John. He allowed a moment of silence to lapse before continuing. "I asked. Let him continue." With these words, he looked back to Sherlock, eyes narrowed and arms spread. "Well? Go for it, genius. Tell me everything you can."

Sherlock studied him for a moment with what could only be described as a mix of disdain and mild curiosity. "Very well, then. As I was saying, those three simple things put together tell me you've seen combat at its bloodiest, and you've only continued to prove me right throughout this entire conversation. In regards to your father, that was a deduction based off what I've already seen about the relationship between you and your brother. A bit of a presumptuous inference, perhaps, but it seems I was correct nonetheless. Anyway, about your brother...well, anyone could see you're very protective of him. Most likely instinct by this point. He's been standing behind you this entire time instead of next to you. Blatantly obvious sign of submission. Oh, look, now he's shuffling away a few inches; undoubtedly a subconscious attempt to establish himself as a man independent from his older brother. Alas, it seems there is very little hope he'll succeed."

The last few words hung in the air for several moments. John and Sam both seemed to be looking for something to say to break the tension, but neither of them could come up with anything, and the silence continued. Sherlock maintained eye contact with Dean, his expression focused, but even. Dean glared heatedly back at the man.

"Great, we all know each other a little better," Dean said at last. He leaned even closer to Sherlock, leaving only mere inches between them, and his voice lowered to a threatening growl as he continued: "But let me tell you something, smartass. Your ‘deductions’ aren’t gonna do a damn thing for you once we get to the bottom of this case. You'd do well to get that through your thick skull before we get there because you're gonna want me on your side. Trust me on that."

“Trust you? Why don’t you tell us what you’re hiding?”

“What the hell makes you think we’re hiding something?”

“Well, to begin-” Sherlock started, but when a firm hand was placed on his shoulder he turned to see John staring back at him, his eyes heated.

“How about we take a look at their notes, Sherlock?”

It was the type of question that John asked that Sherlock knew wasn’t really a question and he’d better listen to or John would have some words for him later tonight. He relented, if only to avoid the pointless lecture that would have been in store for him and to save John a few breaths.

“Right, the notes.” He turned away from Dean and straightened his jacket out before grabbing the small notepad from the table.

He flipped it open and his eyes scanned the scribbles on the first and second page before flipping it back closed and tossing it back on the table.

“Everything I already read in your email therefore utterly useless to me. Take me to the crime scene,” and before anyone got the chance to respond, he was headed for the door.

With a small shrug to the other two men, John followed him out, leaving Sam and Dean alone to stare at each other, still only dressed in their underclothes.

Dean was the first to break the silence.

“What the hell just happened?”


	4. The Truth

Sam shook his head in disbelief. "I guess the guy is really as good as they say he is."

"Maybe, but he's still a grade-a ass," Dean muttered, pulling on a pair of jeans. "I don't like him."

"Well, you're going to have to learn to get along, because we need him," Sam argued. "But that raises another question; should we tell them everything? About what we think might really be causing this?" 

"Are you insane? Hell no!" 

"Dean," Sam said. "Sherlock already knows we're hiding something from them. You even hinted at it. Besides, it's only a matter of time until we run into the thing that's causing this, and I think it would be better for all of us if those two were prepared for for it." 

"No," Dean said flatly. "He'll just laugh at us and go home. I wouldn't have any problem with that, but you clearly think we need him around. We can take care of the creature once we find out what it is. They don't need to have any part of it." 

Sam sighed. "Okay, fine. We won't tell them yet. But if circumstances change and something goes haywire...well, chances are, they're going to have to find out at some point, and it'd be better if they didn't have to learn through experience."

"We'll figure it out if that happens," Dean responded, buttoning a flannel shirt over his t-shirt. "Anyway, get dressed. We should probably get down there before he pisses off some more people."

oOo

When they finally got dressed and left, they found Sherlock and John in front of the motel. John was watching Sherlock, his arms crossed, as the man paced around. Sherlock turned to face Sam and Dean when he saw them approaching.

“We’ve been waiting for a cab. Where are they?” The man seemed genuinely confused, and Dean smirked at him.

“Right this way.” He led them around the run-down building and towards the parking lot, stopping in front of his Impala and smiling back at the two men. “Hop in.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and stepped forward, running his fingers along the hood. “A 1967 Chevrolet Impala with bench seats, one of the last of its kind as most bench seats have now been replaced with bucket seats for a ‘sportier’ look.”

“Wait.” John moved up to stand next to Sherlock. “Since when did you know or care about cars?”

“I had to learn for a case, John, obviously, how else would I know?”

“Sounds like the man knows his stuff.” Dean was vaguely impressed, but without saying so he and Sam walked past the other two and got in the car. “Now, seriously, get in if you want to see this crime scene.”

A few minutes and an awkwardly quiet drive later, they were at the crime scene. There was only one police car there now, and Dean recognized the two officers from the day before getting into it. He got out of the Impala and hurried over, knocking on the window to get their attention.

The officer rolled down the window, obviously a bit surprised to see Dean. "Morning, Agent Saport. And Agent Jacobson," he added upon seeing Sam, Sherlock, and John coming up behind Dean. "And...who are those two?" he asked, giving a quick nod to Sherlock and John. 

Dean opened his mouth to answer, but Sherlock cut him off. "We're here to investigate. I see you've already cleaned up the crime scene, but I'll take an educated guess and say that folder is a copy of the forensics report," he said, motioning to the folder sitting on the dashboard. 

The officer looked from Sherlock to the folder, then back to Sherlock, obviously puzzled. "Uh...yeah. It's...well, it's technically considered evidence, but we've got more copies back at the station, so I guess if you're with Agent Saport and Agent Jacobson, it'd be okay if we gave it to you..." He trailed off, ending the statement as if it was a question and looking to his partner for confirmation. 

The other man nodded, picking up the folder and handing it to Sherlock. "Yeah, I'm sure they'll be fine with it. After all, you guys are the FB-"

"Right. Thank you," Sherlock concluded curtly, flipping through the folder as he walked away. 

The officers exchanged a puzzled, slightly panicked look, and Sam and Dean glanced at each other as well, trying to think of an explanation.

"Sorry, he's...ah..." Sam started. 

"He really wants to get to the bottom of all this," John offered. "We're relatives of the victim, and he's quite torn up about it...we flew all the way from London last night to be here for the funeral." 

Both officers' expressions suddenly became sympathetic. "Oh...I'm sorry," the first one said. "Feel free to have a look around. There's not much there anymore, but the report should have everything you need. If there's any other way we can help, just contact the station." 

Dean, Sam, and John nodded, thanking the pair before making their way into the house.

They found Sherlock in the upstairs bedroom. Before any of them could say anything, he spoke: "You said in the email that all of the victims were once successful people who ended up financially devastated. Pretty standard reason to commit suicide, I suppose. Still, you mentioned nothing about what caused seventeen well-to-do citizens to lose practically every last cent they had. Far too many people to be a coincidence, but far too few people to indicate a local economic issue. What was it, then?" he asked, turning to Sam. 

"Well, we don't really know," Sam responded. "All the article said is that they had experienced financial trouble and that's what ultimately caused them to commit suicide."

"Yes, I know, that's exactly what you said in the email," Sherlock said with a note of exasperation in his voice. "I don't need repeated information; I need new information. I could likely find out what I need to myself, but things would move much faster if you could just tell me." 

"I told you everything I learned from the article. But..." 

"But what? Speak crisply; I get less bored that way." As Sherlock said this, Dean was visibly getting more irritated, but he kept silent for the time being.

"Well, my brother and I were doing some research, and between what we found and the Russian word, we're starting to think that this wasn't suicide. That this could be murder."

Sherlock stared at Sam for several long moments, allowing silence to hang in the air. "You make these utterly baseless assumptions and completely disregard logic, and you really expected me to believe you were FBI agents? Of course it wasn't murder!" He heard John sigh as he steeled himself for another deduction, but he ignored it. "First, the gun belonged to the victim. This photo clearly shows an opened box in the closet right next to the body. It seems they didn't think it was important enough to take with them as evidence," he said, pausing his speech for a moment as he reached into the closet and emerged with a box. "The gun had been in here a long time before the victim used it; there's a good layer of dust in the box, except for this spot, which is suspiciously gun-shaped. Second, there's no sign of a struggle, and third, victim has fresh fingerprints all over the gun. So unless the victim felt bad for the murderer who forgot his gun and gave him the one from his closet without an argument, this was most definitely a suicide. The only reason I'm still here is because of the word written behind the stove downstairs, which suggests there's still something in this case that could entertain me for a little bit. And THAT suggests that there’s something you’re still not telling me.”

“Again,” Dean started, “what makes you think we’re hiding something from you?”

“You’re not FBI agents, and you’re certainly not detectives. If you were detectives you’d have had no reason to pose as FBI agents. You didn’t know any of the victims and you’d have no reason to believe that this was anything other than suicide. Why are you interested in this case? Who are you? And before you begin to spew even more nonsense at us, please know that if you continue with whatever charade you feel you need to hide behind, we will be at the airport and on an airplane in less than an hour. I’m sure there’s plenty more engaging work for me back home.”

The room was completely silent as Sam and Dean stared at Sherlock. John, it seemed, was backing Sherlock this time, as he stood by the taller man’s side, staring back at them.

“Fine,” Dean was the first to break the silence, “you want to know the truth?”

“Dean-” Sam began, but was cut off as Dean continued to talk.

“We’re hunters,” Dean crossed his arms but still didn’t break the eye contact with the other men. “And it’s not what you think. We don’t go out looking for deer or geese. We hunt spirits, demons, and anything else you can think of that might go bump in the night, and we have reason to believe something paranormal is going on here. Whatever this thing is, it’s pissed off and trying wipe this small town off the map. And THAT is the full truth.”

For the first time since they’d landed in this country, Sherlock was at a loss for words.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is co-authored with my lovely friend Laytoning


End file.
